


Maybe I Was Dreaming

by Silberias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sally bashers to the left, righting wrongs, sally is a bamf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally Donovan goes to mourn Sherlock Holmes alone, hours before the formal service. Alone with her thoughts, fury grows as she thinks on the fact that someone duped her. Someone duped her and she led to a man's death and she refuses to let it eat her up. Rather, she decides to end whoever made him do it. </p><p>Eventual Salcroft, there will be Sherlolly later on too. Deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe I Was Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to fill an old Salcroft prompt, but it got away from me (maybe?) and so I'm following it where it wants to go. I really like the idea of Sally and Mycroft together because of the snark and quicker wits they'd have combined against Sherlock (who would so so so deserve it sometimes).

Sally had never meant for him to do this, she decided as she looked at the memorial photo of Sherlock Holmes. She’d pulled a quick favor to be let in during this very early morning with the clergyman, her cousin Raymond who had been the first person to introduce Sherlock Holmes to NSY and the Met. Ray had been accused of embezzling from his church’s poor fund, and he’d accidentally broken down to the man who he was supposed to be hearing in confession. Instead of awkward silence, however, the junkie he’d been listening to had went on to solve the case and prove Ray’s innocence. Sally would have hugged the man who saved her favorite cousin, but the man was nowhere to be found at the time.

As it turned out, she’d had to book him on drug possession a night later, but luckily all the evidence he’d given for her brother had been solid, well documented, and absent of his name. In the ensuing years she’d watched him get clean, heard his genuine and disdainful dismissal of her brother’s church, and told her superior—one night when the man was absolutely and completely stumped for leads and desperate to find two kidnapped children—about a man who might be able to help them find the kids.

Funny his real career with the Met had begun and ended with the kidnap of children, she mused, looking at the empty guestbook, and then at the flowers which surrounded the casket. She’d heard that his sort of sweet-heart down at Bart’s had been the only mortician on duty after he’d jumped, no one could be found to relieve her and in his wallet was a notarized short will in the event of his untimely death: his body was to be processed at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and given as a cadaver for medical research.

It was cruel of the hospital, of his shady elder brother, to force the woman to see him when his body wasn’t yet cold. There were limits, dammit.

Sally didn’t know what else to do other than sit in the front row, careful not to rest back on the seat and disturb the paper resting over it with somber Times New Roman font **_RESERVED_** _._ There could be tears, of course, but she didn’t feel any. Just days after his death, now, there was a huge mess at every court and police station he’d ever worked at as every single police officer, criminal, client, and bystander clamored with mountains of evidence—more evidence than a single man could even direct an army of John Watsons to produce—that Sherlock Holmes was _innocent_ of the crimes outlined in the Kitty Reilly story.

Every news outlet splashed her face, Greg’s, Kitty Reilly’s, Dr. Watson’s, and Molly Hooper’s face with subheadings of condemnation (for herself, Greg, the Commissioner even, and most of all Kitty Reilly) or pitying praise in the face of much sorrow (for Dr. Watson and a special tragic light was cast on Molly Hooper). Sally had never felt more betrayed by her gut instinct as a police woman. Where her cousin had followed his instincts and gone to the church she had gone to school to solve crimes, to find the culprit using her training and her intuition.

Here though, in this great silent room at half seven in the morning, Sally had never felt more remorse for a badly understood hunch. She had been taken as a great fool, and this filled her with fury. A man had died because she had been played. A man who had saved her cousin from years in prison, who had saved _so many people_  that it was hard to truly enumerate the good he had done across London and the surrounding counties, was _dead_. She would never budge that Sherlock Holmes was a freak, but she hardly knew what the marginalized but still afflicted people of this city would _do_ without him and his freakish ways.

He believed in people who were shouted down, if they could get their story to him, and he believed in them enough to free them.

For the first time in a long time, Sally Donovan opened up her wallet and withdrew a plain white card which bore only a number and this: _Call in the event of Sherlock Holmes_. Getting revenge on those who had framed the Freak was far, far better than tears.

“Hello?” the voice on the line was smug, as though he’d been watching her in her silence for the last quarter hour. Given their first meeting, he’d probably had cameras on her the moment she left her flat this morning.

“I want whatever spawned him dead.”

“I don’t think my dear mother will approve of your sentiment, only having so recently lost him herself.”

“Not the Freak, you know who I mean.”

There was a long pause on the line and she clenched her teeth to keep from elaborating. Sherlock’s elder brother had twice the mind of the Freak, but a sixteenth of the motivation. She’d been able to weasel that out of the man when he’d absconded with her years ago.

The church was still & silent between the tiny echo of her heels on the floor as she paced in front of Sherlock Holmes’ memorial picture—something that looked to have been taken in the last year, but without the ridiculous hat that the media so favored for him. Probably his dear brother involved, somewhere. Her cousin’s practicing for the sermon was a dull murmur in the small office he kept near the entrance of the church.

“The man who did this to him appears, Sergeant, to have taken his own life on the rooftop of Bart’s. Cruel thing, you know Bart’s was Sherlock’s…home away from home, as you might say. There is, however, a clever thing that my brother did before his death. He recorded his final conversation with ‘Richard Brook’ on his mobile, which my people found when they cleaned up the area.”

Sally hated herself that she had to ask, but she _had_ to. She was a police woman and Sherlock hadn’t yet been formally rehabilitated in the public eye after his death.

“Did they take photos? I want to know—I want to know that he didn’t shoot Brook and then jump. That will break me, Mr. Holmes, I need to know.”

“You shall have everything and more, Sergeant Donovan. But first, won’t you pop out the front of the church and get in the car? It’s been waiting five minutes while you made up your mind. Remember to say ‘ta’ to the cousin as you go. Might be a while before you see London again.”

 


End file.
